To the Boy Across the Street

*Not from my voice or personal experience*

Dear Matthew,

I am not family, nor am I a neighbor. I am simply an observer, and I hope that you do not waste your time struggling to discover my identity. If you would look past my foreignness for only a minute, I can assure you that you will find what I have to say to be of great personal interest.  

Many years ago, I met your mother, Josephine,  at a local fundraising event. I was there promoting my new business, and she happened to come across my section. She was a beautiful woman, charming, electric, and passionate, and she instantly caught my attention. I immediately introduced myself, hoping to make a strong first impression. She was too polite to turn me away, but the slight frown on her face told me that I had failed to woo her. We had a pleasantly inconsequential conversation, and soon enough we went our separate ways.

A few months later she appeared again, this time at my work, and not alone. She was accompanied by a tall, dark man with an intimidating figure. I quickly stood up from where I sat and approached your mother to greet her, but to my surprise I was met with a strong, large hand, rough with calluses and bruises that come from working in the factory or construction. I turned to see a stern face, one that did not seek to provide much comfort. Embarrassed, your mother introduced me to the daunting force in front of me. "This is John", she said. They were looking to buy a home in the area, and were in need of a realtor. I agreed to work with them, grudgingly due to John's disposition, but satisfied with the thought of being able to see your mother's sweet face. 

It was a matter of months before the couple finally settled down on a small house on the corner of Turner and Market. I remember filling out the paperwork with them in my office, and the sense of relief that came over me once everything was finalized. John proved to be much more opinionated than expected. Almost every home had an outstanding flaw, and for that reason it was "utterly unacceptable". Your mother was not hard to please, and found nearly every house beautiful. There was one house she was particularly fond of - a quaint cottage on the outskirts of town, with a small lake nearby and a picket fence surrounding the perimeter. One evening, she came in to my office alone, and shared with me some of her fantasies and dreams that she had about the house. The daughter playing with dolls on the front porch, the son frolicking in the lake, the mother sitting on the rocking chair making a quilt, and the father nearby, tilling the garden. She never spoke of these things when John was with her. She sat quietly by his side as he meticulously mapped out why none of the houses would work - especially the cottage of her dreams. To this she would protest and begin to tap into her wildly colorful imagination, but John would not hear her stories. 

For five years, I lived in a house ten blocks away from John and your mother. I would make frequent visits, but was rarely invited inside unless we had arranged for a dinner beforehand. John never seemed to be pleased that I was there, but your mother consistently showed me kindness and invited me to come again. For some time, I perceived it as a cordial gesture. But over the years it turned into plea, a cry for my company. I also began to notice her increased use of cosmetics. On some nights, I would point out a peculiar bruise on her face, and she would scurry off to the restroom to cover the mark. These observations earned me a frightening glare from John, and soon I stopped commenting on her appearance. These scars began to appear in places that she could not conceal with make-up; her forearm, chest, and shoulder to name a few. At times, her eyes would be swollen, and her lips so bruised that she could no longer converse with me at the table. She provided whimsical excuses for a short time, but abandoned them once she realized they were of no use. Eventually, I stopped visiting your mother's home. I admit that I did not seek out or think about the potential causes of her appearance. The thought of her pain was unbearable, and so I blocked her from my conscience. It was not uncommon for me to return home from work and find the telephone ringing off and on for the rest of the evening,  knowing it was her phoning me, but declining to pick up the telephone. 

Regardless of how selfish I was, I failed time and time again to block her face from my dreams, to keep her voice from ringing in my ears, and to avoid feeling her pain in my heart. I finally accepted defeat, and began to answer her calls. What she revealed to me in tears was no surprise. I could not bear to be so far away from someone so needy, but my cowardly nature kept me from confronting John. So, as a sort of compromise with myself, I quietly moved into the house across the street from John and your mother. 

I was able to convince your mother to visit me. She was reluctant at first, fretting over the possibility of suspicion from John and the neighbors. We ultimately decided that we would only meet at night while John was away drinking, which pleased her very much, leading me to suspect that she was less worried about John discovering us and more concerned with ensuring I didn't see what he had done to her. She would not allow me to turn on any lamps or even light a candle. We often sat in complete darkness and silence, listening to the hum of vehicles passing by and the palpitation of our hearts. There was no fornication; I respected her marriage, and she was in no condition for love-making. I was tempted to make her stay, however, to lock her inside and protect her from the monster that awaited her the next morning. But we both knew of the danger that presented, and so I watched her hobble away from my home each night, barefoot and broken.

I do believe that the day you were born was the happiest day of your mother's life. I was there when you were born; John was away on an assignment at the time. I remember your mother's smile that day - brighter than the summer sun, blinding to the depressed. She held you as if you were the son of God, and in that moment, you and your mother were independent of the universe. Her frail arms suddenly gained strength as she held you up over her head, admiring each wrinkle that makes infancy pure and perfect. Life reappeared in her eyes for an instant, and then it was gone, passed on to you, her gift to this world. 

Your mother never returned from the hospital. I visited ever so often, but my time was limited due to an increase in workload. By the time John returned home, the news had already come and gone. I insisted that she have a proper funeral, but of course I had no rights over her body. John ultimately decided to have her body cremated, and quickly fled to the northwest with his mistress once he received the ashes, which were left in the house but recovered by me. 

I soon learned of a pair looking for a home and a child to adopt. No later than I heard the news did I contact the young couple, who had already become infatuated with the house on the corner of Turner and Market. I was able to convince them to buy the house, and made a strong suggestion for an adoption: A beautiful young boy named Matthew, who had just been born two months ago. "Matthew?" Said the wife. "Matthew Davidson... Why I think I love that name!" Their joy rivaled your mother's when they brought you home from the hospital, but none could have topped mine. 

Although I was delighted to see your mother's gift being carried into this cruel world in loving arms, the burden of exiting my home and seeing the prison in which your mother suffered for so long forced me to move away. The nightmare of her adult life and the endless regret I hold continues to haunt me. But the beacon of light that you brought into her life eases my pain and allows me to wipe the tears from my eyes, knowing that her spirit lives on within a worthy vessel.

I will not refer to you by John's surname, nor will I allow myself to call him your father, for he is only a shell who lives in the space a true man should occupy. Whether or not you choose to pursue this demented being that I have referred to as 'John' is your decision, but I will only reveal to you his full name, Jonathan Ilmore, in hopes that such ambiguity prevents you from attempting to take his life, which I wished to do for quite a long time. He must die the way a man of his worth should - in sorrow and in solitude. For anyone to take his life would be to end his suffering, which he will surely experience whether it is here on Earth, or in Hell where he belongs. 

As for me, I now live in a small, quaint cottage with a white picket fence and a lake less than a mile away from the house. I have no wife, nor any children. I live contently in the shadow of your mother's memory, and keep a close watch on what is left of her in you. 

I have told you this because it is only right that you know your true identity as you step into your manhood. Maria and Alexander have provided you with the best that they can offer, and have shown nothing but love to you, which you have kindly reciprocated. It is imperative that you continue to show this appreciation to your adopters throughout your life, for they have done more for you than both you or they could ever know. I hope that this information does not sadden you, but rather empowers you by giving your life an enhanced meaning, and answers questions that I am sure you have pondered for your entire life. John was a horrible man, but an example of what you may look to avoid in your life. Know that you come from adversity, from struggle, and that out of imperfection came perfection with you. Your mother was a rich and wonderful woman, and has only left behind gold and silver in her wake. You are a prized possession, a diamond that shone through the rough, and the offspring of one of God's greatest gifts to this planet. Know that you have a guardian in me who is aware of the weight of your existence. Carry that with you as you venture out and find your path in life.  

If my anonymity disturbs you and you wish to visit me, you may ask Maria where I live, and she will respond by providing you with photographs of the house. She has promised not to reveal my location, name, or contact information, so I am afraid that your search will not be easy. If you do manage to find me, however, I'll be glad to know that your mother's imagination still lives on inside of you.

With Love, 

                  Your Affectionate Observer

What I Think About: Flip Phones

I'm thinking about buying a flip phone sometime soon.

I'm guessing that, at most, my current phone has about three good months left before it goes to Apple heaven. I'm not buying the new iPhone X, but I just might buy an old Samsung flip phone instead. I'd have to purchase an iPod to handle all the essentials - Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat etc., or buy a separate iPhone. It would be used for casual conversations with my family and friends, but the Samsung - that would be used strictly for business.

When you think of the quintessential businessman, you see the $2,000 Armani suit, the $22,000 Rolex watch, the $800 Testoni's, and most importantly, the $20 Samsung, the cherry on top, the icing on the cake. In all seriousness, hanging up the phone on a smartphone really doesn't capture the essence of ending an important business call. Picture this: A scruffy man in a brown suit, leaning against the wall of the local convenience store. He's hustling to make a sale, and in a rough, untactful voice says, "That's my final offer, now you can take it or leave it!". He then proceeds to end the call, frustrated and unnerved. What type of phone do you think he's using? That's right, a basic smartphone. He fumbles snatches it away from his sticky, stubbly, sweaty cheek and fumbles around with it until he finds the ever-so-elusive red button that ends the phone call. By that point, the harsh effect is gone, and he knows he has failed.

Now once again, open your imagination and picture this: The perfect businessman in his tailored suit, strutting down the street, beaming, and giving off a hint of Calvin Klein's "Intense Euphoria". He expertly negotiates a deal, and comes to his closer as he gracefully says, "That's all I can offer, call me back if you're serious". Maintaining his composure, he removes the phone from his ear and snaps the phone down with a "pop", placing it into his pocket and continuing down the street without a break in stride. That, in my opinion, is the definition of class.

The smartphone is flashy, hip, current, and youthful, yes. But true beauty and elegance comes along with simplicity. There are times when the iPhone is the appropriate tool to use in social settings, which happens to be most of the time. But there are a select few moments in time when the flip phone is the perfect tool to use. I just want to be prepared for those moments. And if the only time I get to use it is when I'm wearing my suit and walking down a busy street, so be it. At least I'll be prepared.




In all honesty I just want to play that old snake game that had the colored balls you had to eat. I tried finding it on the App Store but I guess people have just forgotten about it. That was my childhood.